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By the time the bath is nearly full and blessedly heated, the rest of my clothes and bandages are gone.

Pestilence’s eyes flick over my body in that same dispassionate way they did before. I could be a lamp, for all his interest.

I should be relieved. If he were to instead assess each imperfection of mine, I might die of embarrassment.

His indifference, however, still gets under my skin. I’m not sure if I want him to be impressed at the sight of my body (ew), or if it bothers methathe feels nothing when he sees a naked woman. Humans have a slew of opinions when it comes to the female body (can’t get fuckers to shut up about it), and Pestilence’s lack of reaction only serves to remind me that he’s something else.

I step into the tub, the water blessedly hot. I sigh as I sink into it.

On the other side of the bathroom, the horseman sets aside his bow and quiver, leaning the weapons against the nearby wall before resting his head against the door. His gaze crawls over me, not crude or creepy, but curious and mildly interested.

I wonder if this is all strange and new for him. Women, nudity, bathtubs, running water—the whole shebang. He’s not just some person who’s been born into this world and takes all these things for granted.

I sink deeper into the water, soaking in the water’s warmth.

Been so long since I took a decent bath.

Most of the time it’s an icy dousing that I have to rush through before I catch my death. Tonight I’m going to stay in here until my fingertips look like prunes.

“Where are you from?” I ask idly.

Pestilence’s eyes narrow. “Elsewhere.”

Of course he is.

I grab a bar of homemade soap and a nearby folded washcloth, and I begin to wash myself off, starting with my toes. I make my way up my body, scouring my skin until it feels raw and clean. Bits of blood and dirt slough off of me.

There’s no shampoo or conditioner—not terribly surprising, considering they’re extravagances—so I lather my hair with soap, scrubbing it the best I can with my fingers, knowing full well it’s going to feel funky once it’s dry.

Better than dirty, I suppose.

It’s only after everything else is clean that I reluctantly attempt to wash my back. As soon as the cloth scrapes against my back, the wounds cry out. Unfortunately, that’s not even the biggest issue I have. There’s a good portion of my back that I can’t reach, no matter how hard I try.

And I’m trying my ass off.

I hear the clink of metal as Pestilence moves.

I eye him warily as he kneels next to the tub. He takes the washcloth from me, and one of his hands grips my shoulder, causing me to tense up.

He looks me in the eye. “I’m only doing this because your weak attempts at hygiene are painful to watch,” he warns.

My lips part, but before I get the chance to speak, he grabs the back of my neck. “Bend forward.”

I hesitate, annoyed at the way he’s treating me, but eventually I do lean forward, wrapping my hands around my calves.

His fingers brush my damp hair aside, the touch sending goosebumps down my arms.

It’s just the chill air, I tell myself.

I clench my teeth as Pestilence begins to clean my wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle. It hurts anyway.

“How easily your kind breaks,” he murmurs as the washcloth makes another pass over my wounded flesh.

It’s the closest he’s going to come to an apology, and I guess it’s good enough. I mean, at least he didn’ttryto kill me like I tried to kill him.

Only because he wants you to suffer.

Once Pestilence is done, he gives me back the washcloth, then returns to the door, sitting with his back against it. He grabs his bow and rests it on his lap, once more the prison guard.